


Stockholm blue, London red

by sherbal



Series: Hello, Mr Curtis. I'm here to destroy another of your classics [2]
Category: B. Monkey, Good Will Hunting (1997), Mad Men, Melancholia (2011), The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011)
Genre: AU/Crossover whatever I don't know, Jarllan, M/M, pseudoRPF (that's a great way to call it)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherbal/pseuds/sherbal
Summary: Chapter 1:" Good Will Hunting" Gerald Lambeau and his partnerChapter 2: "The girl with the dragon tattoo" Martin Vanger & "B. Monkey" Alan FurnaceChapter 3:"Melancholia" Jack & "Mad Men" Lane Pryce





	1. Honey, stop reading that IKEA catalogue

**Author's Note:**

> There will be many many many pairings in here. Some characters are based on their roles in films/tv. Some are original. It's technically not a RPF but ah well, what's the difference any way.
> 
> I'd usually post the idea on Tumblr and will add the link in each story, so be sure to check the links before reading, guys.
> 
> And I have no idea how far I'm gonna go. I believe most of these stories would be very short. This is really just to get those whimsical ideas out of my head.
> 
> Thanks and enjoy.

[Good Will Hunting: Gerald Lambeau and his partner](https://sherbal.tumblr.com/post/185570012329/i-rewatched-good-will-hunting-and-i-just-never)

 

“...I’ve done so much for this little prat. Look how he repays me. Walking out of the door like that.”

  
“There, there, honey, you know kids these days, always put girls in front of everything. He’ll be alright. He’ll appreciate what you’ve done for him one day, probably just not now.”

  
“What possibly could this girl have to get him this obsessed? Leaving a promising career behind and fucking off to California?”

  
“Darling, it’s love. Remember how I turned down that position at LSE just to be with you in Boston? THE BOSTON where everyone turns into loud and obnoxious assholes every time the Red Sox game is on, fucking Dunkin’ Donuts on every fucking street corner and that stupid accent, ugh.”

  
“Come on, we’ve talked about this. And actually you love Dunkin’ Donuts, and lobster rolls, and chops.”

  
“Yeah, and you. Listen, I’ve got to go, I’m in the middle of a panel. You have to stop calling me. I’m the moderator for God’s sake. I’ll call you back at the hotel.”

  
“Promise?”

  
“Promise. Love you.”

  
“Love you too.”

  
“And Ger, stop whining like a little bitch and man the fuck up. You’ve got a Field’s Medal, for crying out loud. Get some work done. And don’t forget to take Charlie to the vet this afternoon.” 


	2. The Hunter and the Trumpeter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed some of the monologues from the movie B.Monkey in the second part of the fic. There's simply no other ways to do it so yeah, hope I could write something like that someday.
> 
> Again, be sure to check the link, guys

 [The girl with the dragon tattoo Martin Vanger & B. Monkey Alan Furnace](https://sherbal.tumblr.com/post/185588946989/the-girl-with-the-dragon-tatoo-b-monkey-jarllan)

 

When you are so used to being the god, having someone’s life and death in your hands, at your will, you would be surprised to find yourself lying in a puddle of your own blood, seeing your entire life flash though your eyes.

Would you see heaven, or hell? Or those twisted years on that small island called Hedeby? Those secret huntings during the night or the thick veneer you wore under the sun? Or perhaps would you think of him? Someone you loved. You remember his sheepish grins, his messy hair in the morning and those light freckles across his cheekbones.

Seeing those bluest eyes above you. Would you be able to take them into the after life?

Martin Vanger felt like drowning in those ocean blue eyes. Darkness welcomed him with open arms.

///

You grow up in the suburbs. You picture a life of yourself, right? A life of danger, late nights in smokey jazz clubs, beautiful people everywhere.

Only then, you do grow up and you’re not living that life.

You’re poor. You teach in the school during the day and of course you like it, though you can barely find time to play the bloody trumpet.

While you hope against hope, to reach those kids who remind you of you.

So you end up watching, not doing, waiting for something to really live for.

The closest I came to a smokey jazz club was the DJ booth at St. Joseph’s hospital.

The only place in this town my kind of records are welcome.

I worked the night shift alone and listened to Django and Coltrane play the pain.

This was my life. I didn’t know what other life I could live.

And then I met someone. Everything changed.

Everything changed.

///

It was a normal early evening in October, about 12 ℃ outside. Gusts of cool wind blowed the golden leaves from the plane trees, leaving those small seed balls dangling around, alarming passersby walking under them.

Alan Furnace was sitting all by himself in his favorite pub, going through his pupils’ finger-paintings. He was itching for another beer but it was only half past seven. He shouldn’t indulge himself too much on a Thursday for he had a night shift as the nighttime DJ at St. Joseph’s hospital. Monday, Thursday and Friday. Three days a week. That was the best he could get.

He should probably pack up and get going. It would take about half an hour’s ride to the hospital and he always prefers to be early for his 9PM shift.

That was when this stranger wandered in. Sand blonde hair. Pale blue eyes. Over six feet. In his late 30s. Wearing a black turtleneck under a dark brown leather jacket. A striped skinny scarf around his neck. Didn’t seem local.

The type Hitler would be enamored with, Alan thought, amusing himself.

The man sat by the bar counter across him and asked for a beer. He shouldn’t stare but he did anyway.

He couldn’t help but blatantly stare right away, with his mouth gaping, breath holding, heart throbbing.

The man soon felt Alan’s eyes on him and Alan hastily averted his gaze. Of course he would notice a red-headed dreary mushy funny-looking 27-year-old school teacher in a boring beige jacket gawking at him with that stupid smitten look.

The stranger raised his beer mug to Alan and smirked. His thin lips curved. Eyes twinkled.

Alan embarrassedly smiled back. This man was way out of his league and getting caught staring could only make a fool out of himself.

He lowered his head, focusing on putting those small gold stars on his pupils’ handouts, trying to get that man out of his head, but secretly praying that the stranger could make a move.

What was he thinking, there’s no way this could happen.

“Alan.” The barkeeper put down a beer in front of him. “From that tall fella. Handsome bastard. Bit of luck today, eh?” Barkeeper gestured towards the door with a tilt of his head.

Alan looked up and saw that stranger walking out.

It’s now or never, isn’t it?

He got down from the stool and dashed outside, finding the man already crossed the street.

He’s not a stalker, but if he’s gonna do it, he’s gonna do it right.

Running between cars, ignoring red lights, pushing though the crowd. All of these recklessness made his heart beat faster, messing with his head, boosting his courage that probably didn’t exist before.

The stranger made a left turn from the main street, going in a quieter one. Alan followed him in and found no one there but a dead end.

“What do you want?” A voice came from behind. Alan turned around and saw the stranger at the corner, lurking like some sort of big cats.

“I, um,” he started to stumble. “I was actually wondering maybe, um, if we could meet for a drink sometime.”

His palms were sweaty, face turning red.

Not a word coming from the stranger’s mouth. And that’s not good, not good at all.

“My name’s Alan. ” He rubbed his neck uncomfortably. “Alan Furnace. Thanks for the beer.”

“Martin, Vanger.” The stranger with this exotic last name finally came out of the dark corner and walked towards him.

Alan instantly felt a constriction in the chest as Martin Vanger approaching him. The shadow of a taller man hovering over him made him even more nervous.

“We can go back to that ‘Pacific Bar’ if you want.” Vanger spoke with this strange mixture of American and Northern European accent. He put too much emphasis on “r” and pronounced “th” a little bit like “ze”. Alan felt his heart missing a beat.

“I’m sorry. I can’t now. I work nights at St. Joseph’s Hospital as a DJ. How about tomorrow night? Seven o’clock tomorrow night?” He almost implored for a “yes”.

“I cannot promise, Alan. Tomorrow’s a long way off.” Martin gave him a small smile.

“I’m sorry. I really have to go. I’m late.” Alan stepped back. “Seven o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

Martin watched this sheepish awkward young man weakly wave goodbye to him.

It was the beginning of a promising hunt.

The hunter stretched out a satisfying smile, glad to see his prey running into the night, disappearing in the traffic, knowing it would eventually come back.

///

Martin looked up from his laptop and glanced at the clock, found that it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening. He rubbed his eyes. There was always too much to do. Vanger Industries was a deteriorating mess ever since the banking crisis of Sweden in 1993. He wanted to bring new personnels on board, experts specialized in financial managements, credible auditors, trustworthy operational mangers. But it was so damn hard to push through even one change to the company, for it was a very private family-controlled business since 1930s. And he, Martin Vanger, was only the fifth CEO in the family at the age of 38. Nobody gave a shit about him.

After yet another unfruitful annual board meeting, with eight out of ten proposals of him voted down by his shareholders, which were his close family members, he escaped to London.

Technically he was here to visit his cousin Anita, talking her into selling her 3% shares of the company to him. He owned about 9% at the moment. His uncle Henrik, the former CEO, 7%. Other relatives mostly had one or half a percent. Anita was the only child and inherited her parents’ shares after their death the year before.

However, Anita seemed to have developed a distaste of the family some years ago. Anyone in the family hadn’t seen her since 1988 after she moved to Britain. She clearly had no interests in taking part in family business and Martin thought this share transfer would be a win-win for both Anita and himself. He needed more control over the company. After another 3%, he would have more than 10%, which means that according to the articles, he could veto those helplessly stupid proposals by his family members that would only lead to quicker destructions.

Anita was difficult to trace down. She changed her phone numbers and addresses, probably her last name. But strangely enough, Martin understood her perfectly. Any sane person wouldn’t want anything to do with the Vanger family.

Then what about Martin? He was still the CEO of this sinking ship.

Well, he was not sane either.

In fact, he was probably the least sane one alive in the family.

He thought about getting some prostitutes. Sex always calmed him during such times. Male or female. Whatever’s fine.

Then he suddenly remembered this awkward funny-looking young man he met the night before at a random pub. The younger man was licking the back of star stickers to put them on some children’s paintings. A teacher for small children, apparently. Ginger. Glasses. Full lips, good for giving head.

What was the time he said? Eight? Seven?

He missed it. Martin felt pity for a moment then suddenly remembered the young man talking about working as a DJ at St Joseph’s Hospital.

He wouldn’t mind some Bing Crosby or Judy Garland.

Martin grabbed his jacket and went out of his hotel room.

///

The hospital was always a strange place to be. It smelled like death.

Oddly enough, Martin enjoyed death, probably more than anything.

He had been cutting people up, wrapping the bodies in chicken wires and dumping them in the sea since his first one back at 16.

Yes, his first one, his father mentored him with enthusiasm and great attentions to details.

It was a loving father-and-son relationship. Maybe too loving at some point.

But he was so glad to see the old man pushed into the water by his sister Harriet, drowning like a blind rat.

He wondered what happened to Harriet. Who killed her when she was 16? He thought he was the only one in the family. But apparently not. That killer also was cautious enough to never let the body be discovered.

All these years, he still couldn’t figure out who might that be.

The family was a true hell hole. It was not entirely surprising to find other demons crawling out.

Martin saw Alan in the DJ’s booth from a distance. He was not wearing his glasses, talking into the mic with a serious professional look on his face. This amused Martin. It seemed like this dump had already become his playground.

Martin wandered in one of the wards, sitting on an empty bed and put the headphones on.

“The creation of the Quintet was an accident like so many things are with jazz. The eh ..Stephane was visiting Django in his dressing room, the Claridge. As Django was warming up to go on stage.”

“Stephane casually decided to improvise chords with him and thus was  
born the Quintet. Hear them now as they cover a Hudson-Mills-DeLange tune. Souvenirs Stephane Grappelli with the Hot Club in Paris. An unlikely couple. A violinist  
and a three fingered guitarist.”

“Some say love is like a violin. Sadly I learned the trumpet and I've only been to Paris on a school trip. But if I could play like that, I know who I'd be playing for. And I know what I'd be playing. This one is dedicated to someone I saw in the pub. And it goes out to all of you who met the love of your life sometime somewhere, once in a street.”

Did he use the word “love”? Martin almost chuckled.

What an innocent young man!

Who believes in love at first sight other than giggling schoolgirls and sentimental housewives?

Martin took a moment to listen to the gypsy jazz before putting down the headphones. He was a fan of jazz as well, from Tommy Dorsey to John Coltrane. But he was much of a “swing” man. Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong and Cab Calloway. He had been collecting those records for a while now.

He went to the booth, knocked on the glass windows. The young DJ was clearly surprised yet thrilled to see him. His face lit up all of a sudden.

Martin tapped at his watch, asking the man inside when could he wrap it up.

“Five minutes.” Alan mouthed and gave him the stupidest grin Martin every seen.

Martin didn’t realize he smiled back until he saw his own reflection in the glass. He was showing too many teeth.

///

“So what do you do, Alan? Other than working as a nighttime DJ at a hospital.”

He took the man to a late supper, watching the younger one gulping creamy mushroom soup.

“I teach primary 3. Singing, drawing, performing, basic math.” Alan started to feel embarrassed of his appetite. It had been a long time since he came to somewhere this fancy. “I play the trumpet when I have time, but that rarely happens lately I’m afraid.”

“What do you play?”

“Oh, mostly Django, some Tommy Dorsey. It’s nothing, really. I’m no where near them. It’s just a hobby.”

“My father was a fan of Tommy Dorsey. I inherited his records after he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He had his fun.” Martin smiled.

“You are not from around here, are you?” Alan asked.

“No, I’m Swedish.”

“One of the students in my class is half-Swedish. Sweet little boy, a bit stubborn sometimes but still very lovely. You don’t see a lot of Swedes in town. What brought you to London?”

“Plane. British Airways, to be more precise.”

Alan laughed at this small joke.

“I’m here on a business trip.”

Alan gave him a weak smile then lowered his eyes. Martin remembered his “love-of-your-life” speech back at the hospital.

“Take me home, will you?”

///

In his 38 years of life, Martin probably had never anticipated he could get tangled in bedsheets with a school teacher who taught primary 3 and played gypsy jazz trumpet.  
  
Alan fell into the crook of his neck. Martin put an arm around him, pulling him closer.

He found himself quite enjoying this closeness. It was rare that he’d be willing to linger around after he got what he wanted.

“You could stay if you want.” Alan murmured sleepily.

He saw no reason why not to. It was a Saturday tomorrow, which meant he could at least be free from phone meetings and irritating emails for the next 48 hours.

Martin drifted off to sleep.

Only he didn’t sleep. He dreamed.

He woke up, eyes wide open, breathing heavily, not knowing where he was.

He looked around and saw the time. Nearly seven in the morning.

A man was sleeping soundly beside him. Ah, yes, the school teacher.

He got out of the bed, put his shirt on, went to use the bathroom then wandered to the kitchen to put the coffee on.

When he was searching for sugar in the cupboards, he heard some rustlings behind him.

“I’m sorry we’ve run out of sugar.”

“That’s alright. I’m sweet enough.”

This banter removed some of the the-morning-after awkwardness in the room.

“Do you take milk?”

“Yes, thank you.”

They bumped into each other when Alan shut the fridge.

A morning kiss seemed natural at this time.

And well, the coffee got cold before they had the chance to get to it.

///

They spent the weekend together. Walking around in the city. Lunch at local diners. Going to the cinema to see “Rush Hour”. Didn’t hold hands in the dark but did have a quick blowjob in the toilet.

Two days passed quickly.

They parted in front of Martin’s hotel.

Martin took a few steps and turned to find Alan still watching him with such a sorrow in his eyes. He walked down the stairs and took this silly school teacher in his arms, kissing the hell out of the younger man until both of them had to stop to catch their breath.

“I’ll probably never see you again. Is that right?”

“No.” Martin held Alan’s face between his hands. “That’s not true. Things here are taking up more time than I thought. I guess we still have time for a mini break in Paris next week.”

///

He didn’t know what happened to him. This warm tingling feeling inside him would make him catch himself smiling for no reason, wake up feeling hopeful and cheerful, walk with a ring in his step. For a moment, he thought he was a new man. Everything could be left behind at that cold Nordic country. He started a new life here in London, with someone new.

Meanwhile, he knew he was here to find Anita. It began to feel strange that she disappeared like a wind. Martin understood that she didn’t wish to be bothered, but not to be found?

His uncle, Henrik, called, ensuring him that everything was fine. The company could make do without a CEO in a couple of days. Maybe the old man noticed his cheery mood, he asked him if he had had some good news.

“I met someone.”

It was at that moment, that very moment, did Martin realize he was hopelessly in love. He was so eager to share this with someone, with anyone.

“Oh, congratulations. I’m so very happy fo you. Is she a British girl? You could bring her back to meet the family if things are getting serious between you two.”

Even though homosexuals could register their partnerships in Sweden since 1995, the Vanger family was indeed very traditional about certain things. Martin couldn’t blame Henrik. He remembered a cousin of his father was sent to labour camps by the family during 1930s. The nazi roots of the family were always there.

“Martin? It’s not a “he”, is it?” Henrik heard no response so he asked.

“Ever since you went to that boarding school in Uppsala, you acquired those bad habits and I thought these would go away after you grow up so I let you dawdle at that time. I should have known better and stopped this nonsense a long time ago.”

“And, Martin? Don’t bother to bring him back with you. This holiday romance should stay where it began.”

Henrik hung up.

Martin once again felt rage, anger, this urge to pillage and plunder, to rape and murder, to kill and destroy. His Viking blood, his nazi blood, was boiling in his veins. So he went out to a dealer, someone shrewd and well-connected, to buy a gun and send someone after his vanished cousin Anita.

///

Walking on the busy streets of London, carrying a gun in his inner pocket was not helping with his fury.

He didn’t even know what to do with this Desert Eagle .50. Made in Israel. A Jewish gun. He’d normally pick something made by the Germans. But today he was looking for something more powerful, more destructive.

When he was aimlessly walking around, he found himself at the gate of an elementary school. Not any elementary school but the one Alan worked in.

It was nearly four in the afternoon and the gates were open. Children playing at the school yard, waiting for parents to collect them.

Martin was averse to seeing all these little snotty noisy running-around-all-the-time children. He was not used to be exposed to this amount of laughter, joyfulness, vibrant liveliness.

He saw Alan, sharing a pack of smarties with a couple of his pupils. The younger man looked so happy among children. He seemed to genuinely enjoy his vocation.  
  
He waved then Alan caught sight of him and smiled back.

“What are you doing around here?” Alan trotted to greet him by the gate.

“Taking you to dinner?” Martin improvised.

Before Alan could say anything, a boy, blonde with blue eyes, walked over to them.

“Who are you?” The boy tilted his head to question this tall stranger in a trench coat.

“Henry, this is Martin. Martin is a friend of mine,” Alan quickly said. “Henry is in my Primary 3 class.”

“Nice to meet you.” Martin stretched out a smile. He was not good with children.

“Are you his boyfriend?” Henry put his hands on his hips, a rather assertive, somewhat hostile gesture.

“Um… how…”

Before Alan could stumble out the rest of his words, Martin replied, “yes”.

The child and him were locked in a stare-down for a while.

“Be good to Mr Furnace,” Henry finally said.

“I will.”

“Don’t break his heart.” Henry looked at him with such determination and seriousness in his eyes, that didn’t normally belong to an eight-year-old.

“I won’t.” Martin assured him.

“My nanny’s here. I should be going.” Henry ran to a woman in a pink coat.

“I have no idea where kids these days get these stuff from. It must be the tele. Parents let their children watch too much dramas and they learn to talk about something they don’t even understand.” Alan waved goodbye to Henry while complaining to Martin.

“I think Henry knows what he was talking about,” mused Martin.

 

///

It was raining in Paris, as his colleague Pam had warned him. But of course, it was helplessly romantic. After the sun went down, when faded the glimmering landscape on the sight, with all the air a sweet tenderness held, they’d kiss, in the drizzling rain, by the Seine.

Martin removed the glasses from his face and put on himself.

Alan chuckled. “You look different.”

“Well, if it’s my face you’re referring to, this does actually look like me. You see, underneath there’s a…”

“A prince?” Alan gestured at a bronze statue of “the little prince” in a souvenir shop window.

“No,” Martin almost let out a soft sigh. “Big bad wolf, more likely. I’m wearing grandma’s glasses.”

“Oh Martin, what big ears you have!” said Alan, as he edged closer.

“All the better to hear you with, my dear.” Martin smiled.

“But Martin, what big eyes you have!”

“All the better to see you with, my dear,” replied Martin.

“But Martin, what big teeth you have!” Alan said with a quivered voice. He was so very near to break into laughter.

“All the better to EAT you with, my dear!” Martin suddenly hooked his arm around Alan and pulled him closer.

They giggled together like a pair of schoolboys.

“Who are you then without your glasses?” Martin asked.

“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps just a good looking frog.” Alan shrugged.

“Will you turn into a prince if I kiss you?”

“You’re not a princess, and we’ve kissed so I guess if it’s true then it’d have worked for now.” Alan tugged at the hem of Martin’s jacket. “All right, give it back.”

“Would you mind that if I’m not a prince, but a big, bad wolf?” Martin put the glasses back on the bridge of Alan’s nose, while whispering to his ear.

“It depends on how big, bad you are.” Alan teased.

“I couldn’t say about big, but bad? You have no idea.” Martin laughed.

“Then show me.” Alan pulled him down for another kiss.

///

As it turned out, Martin was indeed a prince.

When the tall Swedish man was in the shower, Alan turned on the television. It’s good to catch up with the world sometimes, even though you are just a school teacher who teaches Primary 3 and you barely speak any French.

The estimated Gross Domestic Product growth of Sweden in the fourth quarter would be at least a 4%, the news went.

He wouldn’t normally care much about GDP growth. What does he know about that? But it’s Sweden. Alan glanced at the bathroom and thought, well, it couldn’t hurt to know about how Sweden’s economy got revitalized after the reformation.

While he was slightly dozing off, some clips about Sweden’s major corporations flashed through, and one man appeared on the screen, tall, handsome, blonde with blue eyes, in a suit, probably talking about corporate risk management.

It was Martin Vanger, the current CEO of Vanger Industries.

IT, telecommunications, iron and steel, motor vehicles, media and entertainment… the list goes on and on.

Alan was shocked.

Right now, he was in some dingy third-class hotel rooms that the heating didn’t quite work. And his boyfriend, who was still in the shower, was a CEO of one of the biggest family-owned businesses in Sweden.

He should have know better that this man was way out of his league, probably trillion light years away.

If he is on the fucking earth, then Martin would be on some fucking spaceship in another fucking galaxy drinking fucking Dom Perignon 1920 something with other well-off aliens that have fucking gold rings on every fucking finger, and that’s about 22 of them.

That’s how Martin is out of his league.

He heard that creaky door of the bathroom squeaked and quickly turned off the tele.

“Anything good?” Martin walked out with a towel around his waist. He was not in perfect shape but what could Alan complain.

“No, no, just the usual stuff.”

Martin leant down to give him a kiss which Alan responded half-heartedly.

This was not some good news, not to him.

///

Martin, too, hadn’t been in Paris since he was a boarding school student. His uncle, Henrik, took him to Paris during the summer, on a business trip. After his sister, Harriet, disappeared, Martin was considered to be the next heir of the Vanger dynasty, so he must be prepared as soon as possible.

He loved it, but it was with the person he loved that made this trip unforgettable.

He wanted to do something for Alan, anything to keep that lovely heartwarming grin on the younger man’s face.

So he prepared a surprise.

“This is where Django played with the Hot Club, in the 30s and 40s. All through the war it never closed.” Alan immediately recognized this place when they were taking a walk in the city.

“Sadly, it was closed in the 70s.” Alan stopped by the door and tried to peak through the dusty window.

“Why?”

“Elvis, I suppose,” Alan sighed.

“Don't you want to go in and have a look?”

“I’d love to but it’s locked. The owner wouldn’t want people to poke around, I guess.”

Martin threw him a key. “I think he doesn’t mind. Especially it’s a talented red-headed glasses-wearing trumpeter who brightens the world when he smiles.”

“Oh, no, no, you didn’t.” Alan opened the door with shaky hands.

Martin closed the umbrella and came in after. He turned on the light.  
There were broken chairs piled up in the corner. Thick layer of dust on the bar counter. Dirty floors. Light bulbs above flickering. Damp smell in the air.

But Alan was watching all of these with wide eyes, taking everything in. He stumbled to the counter, Martin followed him and caught the younger man writing down their initials in the dust.

“Don’t laugh.” Alan finished the “M” then wiped the two letters off with a dirty table cloth.

“I wasn’t going to.” Martin watched him doing so with pity. He fished a MPMan MP3 player out of his pocket. This thing was worth at least a good 200 pounds.

Martin gave one earbud to Alan, who took it over hesitantly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find a record player, or even a record at such short notice. But I had it downloaded.” Martin put his one in and hit “play”.

Alan recognized it was Django’s “Tears, Paris.”

Martin cuddled Alan in his arms, keeping him in a loose embrace. “How about a dance?”

Alan leaned in and rested his head on Martin’s left shoulder, sinking into the warmth. Martin clenched him tighter.

They moved together slowly, taking their time.

This was too good to be true. Alan felt his heart sunk. It was like drowning, air squeezed out of his lungs every second he spent with Martin, until he couldn’t breathe any more.

He pushed Martin away.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… Um, this is too much. I’m sorry. I can’t. Why, um, why didn’t you tell me?” He glued his eyes to the floor, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Tell you what? This was meant to be a surprise.” Matin was bewildered by his strange behavior.

“No, I didn’t mean ‘this’.” Alan gestured around him. “I mean, who are you? You’re some CEO of some fucking listed biggest fucking family business in Sweden, aren’t you?”

“Alan, listen, I didn’t think much about it. I wasn’t trying to hide who I am from you.” Martin frowned, unable to understand his lover’s sudden outburst.

“You were. I should have known better. Jesus Christ, I’m a school teacher, a nobody. I’m nothing. But, you, em, you have everything. I mean, why me? I didn’t expect this. I couldn’t have. This is too much. What’s gonna happen? I can’t. I thought we had something. I thought… forget about it. Clearly I was wrong. The whole thing’s a mistake.” Alan backed off towards the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to be with myself for a while. Yeah, that’s that…”

Before Martin could get anything out of his mouth, Alan dashed into the rain.

///

He felt anxious, depressed, even a slight bit of rage coming from no where.

Yes, indeed, what’s gonna happen between them?

He held back not only his job, but also his past all along. Even he could be honest about who he is, could he expose who he really is deep down to Alan? No, never. He could be secretly pleased about being a closeted monster, but he knew no one would fall in love with one.

He couldn’t take Alan back to Sweden. He also couldn’t stay in London for very long. In fact, he should be back before next Thursday, whether he found Anita or not.

They don’t share a future together. Their path crossed then it would be very soon when the time came for them to part.

Martin felt a strange heartache. He was so used to have everything handed to him, at his will, determining the life and death of some pathetic foreign whores. He’d expect to get whatever he wants, especially lovers. He played with them, controlling their minds then crushing them, to feel powerful of being who he is. But now it became ironic that he, the Martin Vanger, couldn’t determine his own life.

He thought he could be God.

Once again, he realized he was not one.

He felt powerless, hopeless, helpless. He became that sixteen-year-old boy shuddering at the sight of a dying woman.

Martin hated this feeling more than anything.

He slammed the door and walked out.

He needed to feel powerful again. Quickly he spotted a thin middle-aged woman under the roof of a small deli. She wore an old cotton coat that was probably from a thrift shop and she had a black eye, no ring on her finger. It was the look in her eyes that caught Martin’s interests. You could feel her desperation of being already dead inside from her dim pupils.

Here came the prey for this hunter.

Maybe it was the basic instinct of human beings to sense danger, the woman started walking away. Martin followed her from a modest distance. Oh he was so very good at this. He had years of practice. It wouldn’t be difficult to have it done in a foreign country.

The last one was almost half-a-year ago. He couldn’t control this blood lust any more. His hands were itching to snake around that woman’s thin neck and choke the last breath out of this pathetic mortal body.

 

///

It’s funny that when you’re walking down the streets, trying to find a kiosk to buy a pack of cigarettes, the next moment a flower shop turns up on the corner, you then have a change of heart to buy a dozen white lilies instead.

Alan was there, across the street. The rain must have given him hell. He was wet from head to toe, looking like a true frustrated run-out-of-luck artist wandering in Paris.

The woman turned right and disappeared, but this didn’t matter. Martin had other priorities on hand.

Martin ran to him, holding the umbrella over them.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Martin shouted over the noises of cars and rain and everything else in the world. “I, I’m sorry.”

He should say something else, but he couldn’t and he wouldn’t know what to say because he was now standing in front of the only one person in this world that had reached close enough to get a glimpse of his heart, then he didn’t know how to cope with this.

Alan looked at him with tears in his eyes. Both knew it was not the rain. “When are you leaving? Not Paris. I mean, London. Back to Sweden.”

“Thursday.” Martin choked out.

“Good.That’ll leave us a little less than four days I guess. Better make the most of them.” Alan managed to stretch out a smile.

///

They sat opposite each other in the bathtub. It was still raining outside. Water kept dripping down from their hair, leaving a small trail of wetness on the bare skin.

Both opened their mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, like a fish out of the water.

They were in water, weren’t they?

Then how come they seemed so dry, so dehydrated, so thirsty for life, for love, for hope.

They spooned under the duvet, both awake, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

The rain never stopped.

///

On the train back to London, Martin slowly edged his hand towards Alan, until their fingers slightly brushing. Alan uncurled his fingers and Martin’s slender ones slipped around his. Under Martin’s coat, their palms pressed against one another, fingers interlocked, as Alan continued to read his novel and Martin turned back to stare out of the window.

The clock was ticking. But they tried to pretend they have all the time in the world.

///

After he got back to London, Martin received a call. They found Anita. Buried in a cemetery in East London.

He hurried over and stared at the headstone in stunned silence.

ANITA WILSON

OCT.1,1965 — NOV. 11, 1991

WALTER WILSON

MAY. 6,1959 — NOV. 11, 1991

She was killed in a car accident in 1991, along with his husband. That’s seven years ago. Then how could she inherit her parents’ shares last year? Who signed the documents?

Martin noticed a small bouquet of white carnations left on the ground. Someone was there, probably only yesterday since the flower seemed still fresh.

Something was not right.

///

“I heard you were in Paris for the weekend.” His uncle Henrik said in an apathetic tone in the phone.

“Yes, I was.”

“With that ’someone’ you met earlier, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“I understand that you would feel lonely sometimes, my boy. But don’t get too attached. You know how this will always end, don’t you?”

Martin said nothing.

“It’s just a fad. It will pass. Come home. A general shouldn’t be away from his troops for too long.”

“What if I quit?”

“What did you say?”

“What if I quit? I’m tired. I’ve served the company for ten years. Don’t I deserve…”

“Deserve what? Deserve what, Martin? You deserve nothing, boy! You are nothing if you ever dare to disclaim your family. Do you think you’ve done enough? Ten years? What you did in those ten years? Gala luncheons, charity balls, foreign trips. You have everything handed to you in a silver plate. You thought everything is that easy? The night my wife died while giving birth, I couldn’t come home because of hostile takeovers targeted at us. You think ten years is enough? Try forty.”

“I’m not you, Henrik. I want to have a life!”

“Indeed some life you have, Martin. A primary school teacher? I thought you have better taste than this. Remember, I never expect you to be me. You never could. Look at how our company has gone in your ten-year reign! You are a mediocre safe-weather sailor, Martin. You may have the Vanger blood but you don’t have the Vanger spirit. If ever your sister was still alive, you could have the depraved life you want. I wouldn’t give a damn who you fuck. But since you’re the only one left, I must remind you of your duty to our family. Consider this a life sentence with caviar, villas in south Italy, private helicopters and all the luxury you’d ever want, if it makes it easier for you.”

“Anita was dead, seven years ago.”

“Then who signed the inheritance documents last June?”

“I don’t know. I think I should stay in London for a while to investigate.”

“Do you know how pathetic you sound right now, Martin? You’re no investigator. I’ll give you today to sort everything out, to say goodbye to your lover boy. Fly back tomorrow. We’ll send someone to look into it.”

///

So he had a day. 15 hours and 23 minutes, to be precise.

But he didn’t know how to say goodbye.

He wished he could disappear like a wind, like he was never here.

What if he was never here? What if he didn’t just wander in a dingy pub that day and never catch this sheepish primary school teacher gawking at him? What if he never thought about going to St Joseph’s hospital that night? What if… What if…

Alan was on a field trip today with his students. Martin thought it might be possible that he could tag along.

And the headmaster said yes. She wouldn’t mind having some extra help when dozens of screaming children running around in the traffic.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Martin told Alan when they were handing out chicken mayo sandwiches to the students.

“That soon?” Alan didn’t react much to this news.

“I’m sorry. I have to.” Martin sighed. With a group of children shouting at each other in the background, he didn’t think Alan could hear him.

“I understand. Not all of us can only worry about himself. You have a hundred thousand employees in your hands. That’s… something, isn’t it?” Alan beamed.

“Will I see you again if I ever come to London?” Actually Martin meant “should I see you again if I ever come to London”.

“You promised me not to break his heart.”

They both turned to find Henry behind them. The boy walked closer to Martin.

“You are a liar, Martin. You told me you’d be good to Mr Furnace.”

“Henry, that’s not very nice to say. There are things you’re too young to understand.” Alan shook his head. He got down on his knees and patted the boy on his back.

Martin felt cold with the towheaded boy glaring at him with such contempt and hatred in his pale blue eyes. For a moment, he thought he see his younger self standing there, questioning his conscience.

He was dumbstruck, like a suspect finds himself sentenced to death on the court.

He couldn’t say anything. There was nothing for him to defend himself.

He was a liar.

And he broke Alan’s heart.

“I hate you,” said Henry who then walked away.

Alan gave a sandwich to Martin, “Henry’s too young. He saw in the TV that loved ones can have their happy endings and if they do not, they don’t love each other enough, that it must be someone’s fault this doesn’t work. But we know that things won’t work out can be of many different reasons. You don’t have any obligations to me, Martin. It’s great to have met you. I couldn’t possibly ask for more.”

Martin watched Henry talking to his classmates. He hoped he could have this kind of courage to stand up to someone.

///

They spent the night in St Joseph’s hospital. Inside the DJ’s booth, they ditched the usual Django and Coltrane, and decided to go for a change of taste.

“What about this one?” Alan showed Martin a record of A-ha’s “take on me”.

“I thought ABBA was bad enough.” Martin giggled, “what’s next? Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’?”

Seeing that Alan raised his eyebrows in awe, Martin whispered, “Don’t be surprised. I do know about popular music.”

“I have a very good friend here with me tonight, who will be leaving London tomorrow. We bring you Django Reinhardt ’s ‘It had to be you’, and wish a lovely evening to all of you out there. I heard in the radio that it will be a sunny day tomorrow so, Martin, good luck.”

Alan put on the record.

Martin looked at him, while listening to the song. Before Alan could switch off the sound, Martin approached the mic and said, “this is your wonderful DJ’s friend Martin here. We have an extra one for you tonight. A-ha’s ‘take on me’. Although I’m Swedish, I appreciate his thoughts. I’ve been living in the comics for too long. Thanks to him, everything is no longer black and white. Good night and enjoy.”

 

TBC


	3. Yes, Jack.

["Melancholia" Jack & "Mad Men" Lane Pryce](https://sherbal.tumblr.com/post/185623027479/melancholia-jack-mad-men-lane-pryce)

  
“Some scene you’ve made there,” A pale agitated specky man in his early 40s said to him.

Jack didn’t care for an answer, but since they were the only two people in this cocktail lounge, he somehow felt he should. Everyone else was in the bouquet room, congratulating the newlyweds.

“Mind your own business, will you?.” That’s the best he could do.

“All right then.” They fell into silence again.

After a while, Jack looked up from his whiskey and found that this man had a bruise on his right cheek.

“So what happened to you?” Jack asked.

“It’s also none of your business.” The other man didn’t even bother to glance at Jack.

After another four or five minutes, the nervous-looking man popped a cigarette into his mouth, patted all his pockets, but couldn’t find a lighter. He awkwardly turned to the best man who just got into a row with the bride and got called a “despicable, power-hungry little man” in front of the whole crowd. If it was not raining heavily outside and roads were getting slippery, he'd suspect the best man would have been long gone by now.

“I don’t suppose by any chance you would have a lighter with you?”

Jack threw him a cold look but handed him his. 

“May I…” Jack gestured at Lane's smoke. 

“Yes, of course.”

Jack took one from the pack which the other man just slid across the table.

“Jack Andersson.”

“Lane Pryce.”

“Bride side or groom side?”

“Bride side. She used to work for our firm. Talented young woman. Very bright.”

Lane could tell jack was not very happy to hear any compliments about the bride Justine.

“I remember she was in an American advertising agency. Sterling…”

“Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce, yeah.”

“So you are the ‘Pryce’.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“What do you do? Legal stuff? Accounting? You don’t look like you could come up with some smart-ass taglines.”

“No, indeed I don’t. I’m the financial chief. You are the creative director, I presume? I couldn't help but overheard some of your conversations with the young lady.”

“I run the company but I’m also in charge of the creative department. We don’t have fancy names piling up on our doorplate. But I could use some shrewd finance man who knows his way around numbers.”

"Good luck with that."

The conversation seemed to turn into a dead end.

“So what brought you to Sweden for a wedding? Were you two good pals? Lovers even?”

“No, no, um, I thought I could really use a change of air.”

“From New York? I wouldn’t want to leave Manhattan for this dump if I were you. Battery Park, Madison Square, Carnegie hall…”

“I know you happen to like New York*, truth to be told, so do I. I wouldn’t want to go if I ever had a choice.”

[*Jack was actually referencing the song “I happen to like New York” here.]

“Trouble at work?”

“You could say that, but mostly family business.”

“Your wife had an affair?”

“What? No, no, it’s actually… You know, you do like to poke your nose in other’s business.”

“I never said I don’t. So it’s you that had an affair?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you don’t need to feel embarrassed about it. Shit happens. It’s getting caught that you should feel ashamed of. ”

Pryce laughed dryly.

That was when a woman in the server’s uniform came in, “Message for Mr Lane Pryce?”

“That’s me.”

“Your father would like you to come to your suite in ten minutes.”

Pryce tipped the server two hundred krona. She closed the door and left.

“What? Is it too much? I don’t understand your money.”

“Not if you’re making half a mill a year. Your father’s here as well?”

“Actually we’re leaving for London tomorrow, to try to fix it with my wife. He could have flied back to London from New York himself, but my old man insisted that I shouldn’t dawdle in Sweden alone.”

“So you’ve got an escort officer with you?”

“It’s funny my father always believes that when the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”

“The mountain tried to escape to Sweden, so Muhammad also came along, is that right?”

“Yeah, there’s no other way to put this.”

“Do you have children?”

“No, my wife wants some but I failed to give her one all these years. I’m not infertile if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just, things never work out.”

“Then why does your father insist that you should go back and fix it? It feels like you don’t want this yourself. If it’s not for the sake of children, then what?”

“I should get going. My father’s, um, waiting.”

“So you’re a daddy’s boy, eh? Is your daddy gonna spank you in his room?”

“Shut up or I’ll knock your teeth in.”

“I don’t think you will. You don’t even have the guts to tell your old man to fuck off back to Britain himself.”

Lane stood up and grabbed jack’s collar.

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know me. You know nothing. How dare you…”

“If you have even the slightest balls, you’d sit here and let your father wait.” Jack simply stared back at this infuriated man, not even tasing a finger to defend himself.

“Fine.” Lane let go of him and sat back.

“Your mistress, she good looking? Or ugly as you are?”

“You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?”

“Big tits?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh, come on, what’s the fun then?”

“Um, you married?”

“No, marriage is not for me.”

“The young man you’re with tonight…”

“He’s my nephew. If I’m looking for a lover, I’d go for someone less chubby, wouldn’t I? I think he’s screwing Justine, by the way.”

“Right.”

“Stop glancing at the clock every two seconds. If you really want to meet your father upstairs, no one’s holding you back.”

“I’m not. I intend to stay a bit longer. He can wait. It’s too early for him to go to bed.”

“You’d rather stay here with me than with your father? That’s very flattering.”

“Are you always this sarcastic?”

“Are you always this stiff?”

“You just like to make fun of me. It must be so satisfying to enjoy a man’s desperation.”

“Well, I apologize. So please do indulge me, tell me how did you get caught? Your wife walked in and found you and a pretty girl in her bed, fucking like rabbits?”

“Something like that.”

“Where is she now? Your mistress. Did you dump her already?”

“It was nothing serious.”

“First time cheating on your wife?”

“No.”

“Well, well, well, we’ve got a seasoned sailor here, swimming in the sea of women. I don’t see why you’d be this upset if you’ve done this many times before. If you don’t love your wife, then why not give her a swift divorce both of you deserve?”

“I haven't done THIS many times. It’s complicated.”

“Tell me. We have at least five minutes before your father storms in, grabs you by the scruff of your neck, and drags you away.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d be back in London tomorrow, on my knees, begging her to come back.”

“Why? Is she incredibly rich and you are her gigolo?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then why? I see no reason why you should try to save this marriage. If you want to hook up with pretty girls, you should at least make sure there’s no one home when you bring them back. It’s easier this way.”

“I was with MEN!”

Jack raised his eyebrows.

“I was with men. A few times. I didn’t think much about it. But then I found myself more and more drawn to this. That’s why I have to save this marriage, to stop this fad or whim or fling, or whatever you may call it.”

“You want to cure your homosexuality with your wife?”

“It’s not what it sounds.”

“It is. Your father heard about this from your wife so he came to New York to escort you back? I guess this prescription is his idea.”

“Yes.”

“And since you’re in your big daddy’s pocket all the time, you can’t say no.”

“…Yes.”

“You know this is very pathetic, right?”

Lane nodded.

At the moment, someone opened the door and stormed in.

“Lane, what are you doing here? You should be in my suite ten minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry, father. This gentleman and I were just talking.”

“I tell you to do something, you do it immediately, boy. Do I have to come down here to get you myself? Now come with me.”

Lane sighed and put the pack of smokes back into his pocket.

“Sorry, sir, but I’m afraid your son has other arrangements for now.” Jack stood up.

“What do you mean?” Robert Pryce glared at this man unpleasantly.

“We were just about to get back to my room."

"For?"

"Oh, nothing unusual, just sex, screwing, blow jobs, hand jobs, anal, etc,. He will be busy all night so he can’t come with you. You have to wait until the morning.”

“How dare you? Who the devil are you?”

“Just someone who’s gonna fuck your son so hard that you can hear him from your suite.”

“You filthy brute. Lane, we’re leaving.”

But his son didn’t move at all.

“He’s leaving, but not with you.” Jack offered Lane his hand.

Lane nervously glanced at his father, then he took Jack’s hand.

“Good night, father.”

Lane was about to let go of Jack's hand once he thought his father couldn't see them, but for some reasons, he didn't.

They broke into laughter after Jack shut the door.

“I bet he will leave without you in the morning, once the weather is cleared.” Jack switched on the light. His suitcase was still on the bed.

“There goes my marriage and my family down the sewer. He’ll be scratching my name off his will after he gets back to London.” Lane giggled.

“Well, welcome to your new life, Lane.”

“Yeah, new life. It feels pretty good, I have to say.” Lane watched Jack close the windows. The sound of the thunderstorms outside suddenly turned down to a soothing murmur.

“He did this to you?” Jack sat on the bench at the foot of the bed. He gazed attentively at Lane’s bruise on the cheek.

“We had an argument this morning. He caught me staring at a waiter. I wasn’t but he thought I haven’t changed at all.”

Lane gave him a small smile and continued, “thank you for doing this for me, Jack. I’m very grateful. I could have never done it without you. I really appreciate that.”

“Well, I have nothing better to do tonight. So what’s the plan?”

“I think I will go back to London, file a divorce with my wife, give her whatever she wants. You are right. Both of us deserve this divorce. This is the best thing that happens to us in a long time.”

They then found themselves have been locking eyes for too long. Lane was holding a breath for too long.

Lane rose from the armchair. Jack watched him closely. The specky man edged closer, leant down, one hand hesitantly placed on Jack’s shoulder. Their noses brushing.

“I don’t suppose you really meant what you said,” Lane whispered.

“Oh I did mean it. And my other offer is open as well.” Jack didn't move at all, just like when Lane grabbed his collar.

“What is that?” Lane kissed the corner of Jack’s mouth.

“Come work for me. The ‘Lane Pryce’ from PPL. We met years ago in London. You don't remember me, but I immediatley recognized you at the reception. I know how good you are at your work, and I also know you were recently released from Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce because of the embezzlement to cover your tax bill in the UK. I could use some partners like you, and you could use some cash to sort out your divorce. How about that? A true win-win.”

Lane froze then he tried to back off, but Jack’s hand slid up his back and held him firmly in place. Lane fell in Jack's laps, both literally and metaphorically.

“I can not believe this. You’ve done all of these just to recruit me?”

“I talked you out of a horrible cover marriage, I told your father to fuck off, and I just offered you a job. Cheer up. It’s your lucky day, Lane. Actually, you SHOULD be thanking me. Without me, you would be hanging from the ceiling some days later.” Jack ran his hand up Lane's thigh.

“Dear God, you’re the devil himself. A, a snake in the grass.” Although complaining, Lane opened his legs when Jack's hand went between.

“Call me whatever you like. You really don’t have much of a choice at the moment.”

 Jack scooped Lane up. “I’m a man of my words, which means that whatever I promised your old man, I would honor it. Now remember, your suite is down the hall, so I think you should work very hard at it.”

 

**The next morning.**

 

It was a sunny day outside.

“I think I just saw your father by the coffee machine,” Jack returned to their table with another plate of eggs and toasts in hand.

“Oh? How does he look?” Lane took a sip of his tea.

“Evil, grouchy, bitter, as usual. He looks like he didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Well, it’s not going to be on my conscience. I’ve never slept this well last night.”

“Indeed you have, hogging all the blankets, draping yourself all over me. I woke up at least five times.”

“Now, don’t you make me feel guilty enough to take that position at your firm. I need to think it though.”

“Come on, you’ve already slept on it.”

“I haven’t really got the time to ‘sleep’ on it. You left me no time to ‘sleep’ on it.”

“Don’t you fuck with me, Lane. I know once you get out of here, you’d throw it all behind you.”

“What do you want then? A blood oath?”

“That won’t be necessary. But I was actually thinking about something similar that also involves body fluids.”

“No, no, no. Two times last night, one this morning. I can’t possibly… How could you… Never mind. If it can be counted as some sort of contracts, blood oath would look like a childish pinky promise compared to this.”

“So you accept it?”

“Look, Jack. I like you. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me, though out of some other not very noble reasons. But it’s a big decision. And you know I’m going through a lot recently. You can’t expect me to make such promise just because you gave me the best shag of my life.”

“Don’t flatter me. I want you, Lane. You salary would be as good as what it used to be in your old firm, and about partnership? We can always reach some satisfying conclusions. And consider the sex as bonuses.”

“I’m sorry… I.. Father?”

“I’m leaving. I give you one last chance. Are you coming with me or not?” Robert Pryce stood next to their table, looking down at them, like a combative bull.

“No, I’m not.”

“So you’ll continue to live this depraved life? Have you no shame of yourself? And you’re still with this degenerate shameless man. Both of you will rot in hell.”

“I bet you’d be there before us. They have a special place for your kind, sticking hot poker up your ass.” Jack put down his napkin.

“And, pray, what kind would that be?”

“Stiff old man who thinks he can still order his son around, arbitrarily deciding what’s for best of the poor sod based on his sick outdated sadistic values.”

“Watch your mouth, you fiend. You corrupted him with your morbid ideas. He could have a happy family, a lovely wife, some children. And now he’s some sordid gargoyle as you are. You ruined him.”

“He will have a happy family, in fact, but not some sodding wife, yes, a husband. And we can always adopt.” Jack grabbed Lane’s hand across the table, who certainly flinched at his touch.

“What? Are you getting married? Lane? Answer me!”

Lane gasped for air. Everyone’s jaw dropped since they were clearly all eavesdropping.

“We are, um…” Lane goggled at Jack, who just gave him a look, “yes, we are.”

“And he’ll come work for me,” Jack declared, like a proper tyrant.

All the people in the room applauded. Some even whistled.

“Fine, don’t come home. I have no son.” Robert Pryce turned around and left.

“I thought you said you have a brother?” Jack said to Lane after everyone got back to their breakfast.

“He’s also gay. My father turned him out of the house years ago. That’s why he tried so hard to get me back on track. He couldn’t lose both sons. Wait, what? We’re getting married? What the hell did you say that for? As if it’s not already chaotic enough.”

“Why not? The sex is great. You want to settle down. I need a right partner…”

“I knew it! I knew this is another one of your evil schemes to get me on board. To be your fucking partner! Now that’s incredibly low, even for you. You thought announcing it in public can change anything?”

“You’re that type of man who would rather die than embarrass himself. I think I’ve made the right move.”

“What right move? If you don’t care about my reputation, then what about yours? Or you just announce your engagements all the time? You’re indeed a despicable, power-hungry little man who’d do anything to get what you want.”

“That’s very hurtful to say. When I said a partner, I meant more than a partner in the firm.”

“Jack? Are you serious? I thought, um, you said marriage is not for you.”

“I’m not always this despicable, power-hungry little man. I’m not young any more, and I’d like to have someone to come home to, if I ever could meet that one.”

“You do know that I brought men back home, cheated on my wife, and was scared as shit when my father is in the same room. Actually, I’m still married.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect. What could possibly be worse than that? That you’re a woman?*”

[* I love this reference so much that I’d want to point it out Jack was referencing “Some like it hot” here.]

“We met yesterday. Don’t you think it’s a bit quick?”

“Not quick at all. Once you get your divorce done, we can go to the registration office. You’ll soon be able to legally work in Sweden, saving us a lot of trouble of visas. I’ll give you a week to sort everything out in the UK and you’ll be expected to show up in our office next Monday.”

“So this is about getting me on board?”

“Yes, exactly. And don’t you fuck me over this time, Lane. If I ever catch you with another man in our bed, or any irregular transfer activities in our company account, you’d be wishing that you are still with your wife, your father’s fist up your ass, playing you like a little puppet.”

“You sound like my father, only more verbal, more threatening and gay friendly. Now I’m not very sure if I’ve made the right decision.”

“Save that little speech of your father complex. Hurry up and finish because we’re leaving this dump. I want you back in London with our engagement ring on your finger.”

 

END?

 

**Earlier this morning**

Jack woke up finding someone’s ear inches away from his face. He could still smell the man’s faint aftershave. Obviously, it was not Gillette or Nivea, something expensive, much more expensive, just like those Tom Ford shoes he wore or that Patek Philippe on his left wrist. Although they just got together for one night, Jack could tell Lane was a man of expensive tastes.  
  
He felt numb in his left side of the body so he looked down and saw Lane sprawling half on top of him, burying his face in the crook of Jack’s neck. Lane’s arm naturally spread across his chest and a leg squeezed in between his. The man was still sound asleep despite his uncomfortable position.

He couldn’t remember when was the last time he woke up with someone in bed together. It seemed like an ancient history. It couldn’t be in the 90s, could it?

Probably not, but even though this was a rare experience to him, he really should get up due to nature’s call.

Jack slowly detached himself from Lane’s limbs, painstakingly drawing his arm out from under the dead asleep man. Jack wouldn’t want to wake him up, it was only a little past six.

He picked up his white dress shirt from the carpet and threw it on. The room was a mess. Shoes, ties, socks, suspenders, crumpled jackets on the floor. He peeped through a small gap of the curtain and found it to be a lovely sunny early summer day.

He went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror after emptying his bladder. He seemed younger, cheerful even. His eyes gleamed when he noticed a light bite mark on his right shoulder. Things went a little bit out of control when they found out there was no lube provided in the room. It felt awkward that two middle-aged men were doing it like a pair of teenagers.

Jack came out, saw Lane still peacefully sleeping. He wasn’t sure whether he should get back to bed so he fished out his laptop from the suitcase and started checking his emails. The company was not going in a pleasant direction with the economy slowing down and krona having bad days. Therefore, everyone had to tighten their belts and work harder. That was always Jack’s philosophy — there’s nothing bad about earning your daily bread, though sometimes he did realize he was pushing everyone including himself too hard.

He pretended to be very calm when Lane woke up.

“Good morning.” Lane sat up and squinted at him. His glasses must be somewhere on the floor since Jack carelessly tossed them away last night.

“Morning.” Jack shot him a quick glance then turned back to his laptop.

He secretly observed Lane wrinkling his face as if he was desperately trying to find something to say to clear the air, then probably the man decided against this and went straight to the bathroom.

Hearing the sound of shower running, Jack buried his face in hands. It was the joy of having and the fear of losing he felt right now, somewhere deep in his chest. He wanted this so much that he was afraid of never being able to get it again.

Despite his way of putting the current situation to Lane, Jack knew perfectly well that it was a fat chance Lane would say yes to his offer. Although this man may be out of his luck now, moving to Stockholm was clearly still not his best choice, probably not even one of his top five choices.

But he couldn’t bear the thought of having such treasure to walk out of his hands, however, there was little he could do to persuade Lane to stay.

This thought infuriated him. As a man who would like to be in control all the time, Jack abhorred this growing sense of despair and powerlessness in him.

So he stood up and walked to the bathroom.

“What?” Lane turned to him in such a fright. Hair wet. Lower face covered in shaving cream. A towel loosely wrapped around his waist. He was holding the cheap hotel razor in his hand.

Jack stood behind him. Lane eyed him worryingly in the mirror.

“Good morning,” Jack removed the towel from Lane’s waist and just let it fall onto the tiles.

“Good morning to you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m actually in the middle of something here?” Lane tried to turn around but Jack’s hands held his hips firmly in place. Jack was wearing his dress shirt from yesterday, chest exposed, Lane suddenly noticed Jack’s chest was clean shaven.

“Wait, are you already wearing a condom?” Lane reached his hand behind and touched Jack’s half-erected prick.

“It’s the last one so we’d better put it into good use.” Jack patted Lane’s hand away.

“Fine. You don’t usually give me choices, do you?”

Jack spread Lane’s legs using his knees, fingers trailing down Lane’s lower back, slipping down his crack to push apart his cheeks, thrusting a finger inside, then two. Lane dropped the razor and bent over the sink.

Lane shuddered when he felt the tip of Jack’s cock softly nudging at his now exposed entrance. The blunt head eased in like the battleship “Bismarck” victoriously gliding into the port of Kiel or Julius Caesar’s army marching triumphantly into Rome. Before he had a chance to grit his teeth, Jack soon pulled out, then entered him again. After a few time, Lane realized Jack was teasing him.

“Stop it. Do you still need an invitation to get in? If I remember correctly, you wasn’t this courteous last night.”

Jack must have chuckled. Lane heard it.

The next thing he knew was that Jack pushed forward in one thrust. His knees felt weak, mouth dry, stomach tightening.

  
He didn’t even remember to touch himself with Jack penetrating him again and again like the KGB penetrating the UK’s intelligence network, thoroughly and scrupulously. Jack was a prudent man. If he does something, he’d give it two hundred percent devotion.

He ejaculated onto the tiles, but Jack didn’t stop there. His hands snaked to the front, touching Lane’s nipples. First some gentle pressing and when Jack felt appropriate, he pinched them with his thumb and index fingers. Lane cried out loudly. He may have screamed. But at the moment Lane really didn’t care someone in the corridor might hear him.

He didn’t know what he was doing. His entire body shook as Jack’s thighs slapping against his bum with each thrust. At some point, he accidentally pushed on the tap, the sound of water was ringing in his ears but he couldn’t turn it off.

So he came again. Then Jack came.

Lane collapsed onto the toilet seat once Jack loosened his grip.

“You look ridiculous.” Jack threw Lane a towel.

Lane looked lovely, even with shaving cream on his face. His freckled skin turned pink. Blushing heavily. Mouth open still gasping for air. Actually Jack wanted to say “you look beautiful”, or “you’re better looking without the glasses”, or even “please stay, I can’t lose you”. Jack wanted to lean down to give him a kiss but somehow he could only manage out those words.

He left the bathroom to give Lane some privacy to sort himself out. Then he sat on the bed, started mourning for his loss.

 

**Later that day**

“I thought you said we were going to the jeweler.” Lane noticed that they were actually on the highway to the airport.

“Do you really think I’ll ever let you get back to London with a 9k dollar ring and then you say you change your mind and mail it back to me in a DHL package? I will never bear the embarrassment to return it,” Jack said while cutting someone off when changing lanes.

“I see.” Lane looked out of the window, watching the driver in the car beside them flipping them off.

“I think it’s a good idea that you should get back before your father. You don’t want your wife to hear those from anyone else but you. You can probably leave the engagement part out. But I think you should be absolutely honest with her about the rest.” Jack tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.

Lane fiddled with his wedding ring. There was no other sound in the car other than some Swedish songs in the radio.

When they got to the airport, in the international terminal, before Lane walking into the security checkpoint, Jack thought he should clear up something.

“Lane, listen, if you change your mind, or perhaps you never really want to accept my offer, I mean, the position or this engagement out of nowhere, it’s fine. I know I’ve been pushing you too hard. But if you don’t want to come back, then don’t let me see you again. I’m glad to have helped you out. You probably really deserve someone better but I am a despicable selfish little man whose heart is only this big. I won’t pretend I’m glad seeing you in a new life with a new man, dogs, designer shoes… without me. So good luck with your new life, Lane Pryce.” Jack extended his hands to Lane, who took it hesitantly.

“I…um, thank you, Jack. It’s a pleasure knowing you.” Lane looked up at Jack, who suddenly aged ten years. His ocean blue eyes were dodging Lane’s stares.

“You better go now. Too many tourists. You don’t want to miss your plane.” Jack let go of his hand and gestured at a group of Chinese tourists walking around them.

“Goodbye then.” Lane nodded and turned to walk towards the checkpoint among the group of Chinese tourists.

He glanced over his shoulder and met Jack’s eyes, who quickly averted them and waved him goodbye half-heartedly.

Jack thought, well, this was the end.

Tomorrow he would still appear at work, screaming at his slouchy employees, pushing everyone’s buttons, demanding all of them to reach their full potential. He would be fine.

Jack sat down on the bench, crouching. Before he could walk out of here pretending everything never happened, he needed to take a moment.

Just when he heard his phone ring, a pair of nice legs, slender, straight, stopped in front of him.

He looked up. It was Lane.

“I’ve forgotten something.”

Jack stood up, slipping his phone back into his breast pocket.

“What? The souvenir shops are in the terminal.”

“No, well, I just realized that I’d forgotten to, um… kiss you goodbye. Do you mind?” Lane edged closer, waiting for his approval.

“If you kiss me now, I’d have a really hard time seeing you kiss someone else in the future. Are you sure about this?” Jack leaned down slowly.

“You said we could always adopt, so I presume you wouldn’t mind me kissing our children, or probably even grandchildren.” Lane gave him a small smile. He tilted his head up to meet Jack’s mouth. But he suddenly saw from the corner of his eyes that the group of Chinese tourists, mainly senior citizens, were all staring at them with fixed eyes.

“Probably not now.” Lane tugged at Jack’s sleeves.

“Let them look. It’s better than the Archipelago.” Jack took Lane into a close embrace and kissed Lane as if he was claiming those lips. Lane threw his arms around Jack’s shoulder, leaning tightly against his fiancé.

Much to their surprise, the tourists all applauded, some even took some pictures, it certainly would last longer.

Lane broke the kiss after a while. It was uneasy for him to come out of the closet in the largest airport of Sweden.

But before Jack had any chance to pull him back into another one, Jack’s fucking phone rang again.

He furiously took it out and found out it was from his nephew, Tim.

“What? Do you have to call right now? You can’t tell I’m busy?” He shouted unpleasantly into the phone.

“Uncle Jack, I’m sorry to disturb you. But, um, you left me at the hotel and I couldn’t find someone to give me a lift back.”

Oh crap, Jack forgot something as well, for instance, he had a nephew.

//

For Lane, he found himself sitting side by side with his father on the flight back to London, who no doubt had already witnessed the whole charade of “Casablanca” before the checkout point.

“Are you really going to marry him? Even as a homosexual, you should have some standards.” Robert Pryce said to his son after half-an-hour’s silence.

“Yes, we are, father. He’s been very good to me.” Lane nervously glanced at his old man.

“But you barely know him! I don’t trust this man at all. Filthy brute. Absolutely no manners. And he’s a Swede. A herring-eating, unemotional, gutless Swede! Your mother wouldn’t want you marry a foreigner,” Robert Pryce said while going through his papers.

Lane almost laughed out. To his father, the thought of his son being with someone like Jack was clearly more horrifying than his son being a gay man.

“Father, I promised him, you know how depressing these people are, what if he tries to commit suicide after I break off the engagement? You wouldn’t want blood on our hands, would you?” Lane joked but tried to keep a straight face.

“You’re a grown man, Lane. If you insist to go down this road with this horrible man, as your father, my hands are tied. But I have one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Grandchildren. I’m an old man, with one foot in the grave. At this point, it wouldn’t bother me that much whether you’re sleeping with a man or woman, but I want to see my grandchildren before I draw my last breath. Probably some adorable little towheads since you’re marrying a Swede. They have to speak perfect English. I can’t stand that kind of accent in my house. And you have to make sure what’s-his-name will not be a bad influence to them. Are we clear?”

“Yes, father, crystal.”

“Speaking of crystal, you can have your mom’s diamonds, even her wedding dress. She always wanted a daughter that someday she could pass her dress down to her. It’s a bit small for you but we can take it to the tailors.”

“That’t not funny.”

“Have your beau wear it then. You are not the one who takes it up the ass, are you? If you’re going to be gay, at least be the man!”

“I’m not talking this with you.”

“Good, talk about this with your wife then. You owe that poor thing a good explanation. If you really don't love her, you should give her a swift divorce.”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, I mean, yes, dad.”

Saved it.

END

 


End file.
